


Call to Arms

by audenwood



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artistic License: Justifying Rare Pairs Since The Beginning Of Time, Drabble, F/F, Pre-Femslash, Set During Silence of the Lambs (novel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 23:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audenwood/pseuds/audenwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're a <i>thinker</i>, Miss Starling, and I like that a lot. A genuine voice of reason, I imagine, when you give voice to your thoughts. I'll be blunt: I'm a thinker, too, and what I'm <i>thinking</i> is that you'll share the gory details with me."</p><p>Starling glances at the growing crowd of media snakes and says, "Sorry, Miss Lounds. You're going to have to wait it out with the rest of them."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call to Arms

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.

Clarice Starling sees the woman striding towards her in the heavy rain and immediately identifies her as Freddie Lounds.

The journalist is a legend at the FBI Academy, where the topic of Dr. Lecter is often brought up with avid interest. The future faces of law enforcement and the elders that are the architects of their education cannot shut up about the whole phenomenon. There are many personas and events to discuss – Crawford, Graham, the Red Dragon, the ultimate capture – and Freddie Lounds’ key role in the hunt is part of it all.

Starling knows the subject, every bit of it. She has read the articles, watched the interviews, studied the psychological theories, etc. It is considered fashionable to be in the know about the entire thing, including the more obscure facts, but that is not saying that Freddie Lounds is an obscure fact. On more than one occasion, she has found herself standing idle inside a drug store or by a newspaper stand and picked up a copy of _The National Tattler_ , flipping through the cheap pages with disinterest and noticing one specific byline: _Freddie Lounds_. The woman gave a television interview as soon as Hannibal Lecter was behind bars. She announced a book and shared the intimate details of her personal experience of the fiasco and flipped her pretty curls over her shoulders, smiling straight at the camera. Starling watched it with her morning coffee in hand eight years ago and deemed that Lounds is manipulative, two-faced, never hesitant to participate in exploitation, and someone that she would immediately dislike if she were to meet her in person.

Split City Mini-Storage is not the place that she thought their meeting would occur.

She never expected a meeting between them to even occur, actually; it seems that finding a head in a jar tonight is not the only surprise meant to greet her.

With her new involvement with Hannibal Lecter, she suddenly has the notion that she should have, perhaps, at least considered the possibility of coming face to face with at least one of his old and very much still alive victims.

The fortunate ones, she thinks, and then wonders just how fortunate they really are.

But if Freddie Lounds is still troubled by her anamnesis – which is remarkable, according to page one-hundred and twenty-four of her popular memoir that Starling bought on the day it arrived in stores – it does not show in the way she moves within the sleek wardrobe choices that she dons and her deliberate way of walking as she approaches Starling, sizing her up and down with a half-second scan, barely detectable, and she must not feel threatened by what she sees because she smiles, sans teeth, and it is not a salute that emits faux charm.

“Quite a commotion here,” Lounds says, quirking her eyebrows and examining the scene: Mr. Yow, fidgeting and nervous; people from newspapers and tabloids not unlike Lounds’ own and Jonetta Johnson from WPIK news, her troubled crew hovering a few paces away from her. The blue and red lights of the cars, just arrived, the police that are searching the garage. And then she looks at Starling from the side, a knowing spark in her eyes: a recognizable rookie standing on the cold and bitter sidelines now that she is not the only semblance of jurisdiction out here.

“That’s the deal,” Starling says. “Step a bit back, please.”

“I’m sorry,” Lounds says and she obeys by stepping away an entire two point five inches, smile still knitted onto her red lips, somehow still impeccable underneath the falling rain. Her hair is flattened atop her head, abused by the fat and heavy drops of water. Now she stares at Starling by looking directly forward.  “Overeager is the name of the game, Miss Starling. Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think we can cut through the fluff and get to the exciting part,” she says, “because I’m sure you understand my interest.”

“I understand just fine, Miss Lounds, but there isn’t anything I can do,” Starling tells her. “It’d be best if you wait for the police to do their jobs and ask questions when they’re through.”

“Miss Starling, you’ve recently met Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” Lounds is quick to jump to another topic, Starling notices, indicating that her mind is rushing at the moment and her biased standpoint is tampering with her usually focused manner. “I heard from a trusted source. Like it or not, you’re one of us now, and being one of us isn’t so nice. Still, you’ve been given insight for a reason, and now this has happened. What will you tell me?”

Not _what_ can _you tell_ , Starling notes. _What_ will _you tell me?_

“Right now, nothing.”

“Nothing,” Lounds nods. Both of her hands are placed in her red knee-length coat, a shapely figure encased in the thick fabric and her legs are wrapped in sheen panty hose, ebony ankle boots shielding her feet from the cold. Starling feels scrutinized in her lack of FBI-indicating dress, her plain attire and the unimpressive card gripped within her hand, the only item on her that is candid about her authority. “That’s reasonable.”

“Your cooperation is appreciated,” Starling says, but she knows that this is a lie because Lounds does not cooperate, she bargains until she gets her way. Freddie Lounds can make a person feel things they never wanted to feel and she is perfectly aware of this. She also possesses the uncanny ability to manipulate a person seamlessly, without hesitation, and she exploits others for her own benefit. Her ruthlessness defines her, her intelligence parses her, and her alluring femininity gives her an overall sharp advantage.

She observes the woman as she removes her hands from her coat pockets, a little notebook in her left hand and an ink pen in the right. These items are carefully shielded from the heaven’s downpour as she mounts the writing utensil over the plain white pages, a few other words scrawled onto the paper. A plump raindrop settles itself on the corner and Lounds pays it no mind.

“You’re a _thinker_ , Miss Starling, and I like that a lot. A genuine voice of reason, I imagine, when you give voice to your thoughts. I’ll be blunt: I’m a thinker, too, and what I’m _thinking_ is that you’ll share the gory details with me.”

Starling glances at the growing crowd of media snakes and says, “Sorry, Miss Lounds. You’re going to have to wait it out with the rest of them.”

“Don’t disappoint me. I have preemptive faith in you,” Lounds is persistent. Starling has prior knowledge of this but she is still growing frustrated. “Jack Crawford is rough around the edges but he knows what he’s doing and his judgment can be trusted. You must be a real star.”

FBI trainee Clarice Starling stays silent because she does not know what the appropriate response to this statement is meant to be, and silence is favorable when words can put one in serious blunders.

The journalist closes the notepad but does not put it away, simply holding it tightly in her hand and she continues with, “You can call me Freddie if you’d like. It is Clarice, isn’t it?”

Dropping honorifics makes Starling itch. She does not think that she likes it, not so suddenly and not when it’s this scheming ginger dropping the titles – a scheming ginger that almost died helping Will Graham out and has a bestselling memoir that sits within Starling’s personal literary collection and still works for _The National Tattler._

“It’s Clarice, yes,” she says, slowly, “If you don’t mind, _Miss Lounds,_ I think it would be appropriate to give the matter some rest. I’m busy.”

A lie, right through her mouth like it’s nothing. Busy, her ass.

But Lounds knows this and she doesn’t care – in fact, Starling realizes, she _likes_ liars, even when the lie is obvious. “Clarice, there aren’t any dubious motives behind this. Ideally, I would be kept up to date with every development in the case of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, no matter how murky or insignificant, but chivalry is dead and so is common courtesy. Maybe I’ll report it tomorrow, maybe I won’t. It doesn’t particularly matter, everyone and their mother will be aware of this in the next few hours when they turn on the news. It’ll be in big red letters. Do you, personally, hold the opinion that I deserve to know?”

Playing the victim card – Starling notices it immediately. Her words are transparent but her manner of talking is not, which is impressive. The tone embedded in each of her syllables gives nothing away but something forthright. “That’s not an issue that I’m entitled to give an opinion on.”

“Oh, of course,” Lounds says, giving a condescending nod and a few introspective eyelash flutters, “and that nobody _ever_ has an opinion on something that isn’t their business.”

Starling frowns, ridding her mug of its previous stoic expression. “No—”

“Starling!” A big, buff man with a hoarse voice calls out from the garage. Both Starling and Lounds look in the direction of the voice and the man who has called her is holding an evidence bag, still inside the structure so that he does not get soaked by the rain, and Starling identifies him as Officer Bautista, one of the cops who came in the squad cars.

“I’m coming, Officer,” Starling replies, and she turns back to Lounds. “That’s all, right? Good. I’ve got to go.”

“Now, hold on for just five seconds,” Lounds says, opening the notebook and scribbling something down. She rips the page out quickly, puts the items back into her pockets, and takes out a crisp business card that liquid drops perch upon immediately. “You have potential, Clarice Starling. I look forward to talking to you someplace where it isn’t raining. Give me a call sometime.”

Starling takes the note and business card because it is the right gesture to carry through, and she places them in the pocket of the pants she is wearing. “Alright. Good night, Miss Lounds.”

“Have a nice evening, Clarice Starling.”

Black ankle boots turn on sodden cement and the journalist makes to join the group of journalists and reporters and cameramen, all eager for the scoop.

Starling watches her, and then hurries to the garage where the severed head was found inside a 1938 Packard limousine, unused and belonging to a dead man’s inventory.

She wonders about the note.


End file.
